The Starlight Lounge has transformed into what I can only describe as a fever dream designed by someone who watched too many 2080s game shows while suffering from a particularly aggressive stomach virus. Holographic letters float above the stage, spelling out "FAMILY ARGUMENT" in a font that makes my eyes hurt. The lighting cycles through every color known to science and probably a few that physics is still arguing about.
My camera drone bobs nervously beside me as I take in the scene. The usual elegant theater seating has been replaced with what looks like the result of a design AI having an existential crisis – chrome and neon everywhere, with seats arranged in a pattern that probably makes perfect sense to someone who's never actually had to sit in a chair.
But it's the mA units that make my skin try to crawl off my body and hide under the nearest table. They're positioned around the room with the kind of precision that makes military formations look sloppy. Each one stands perfectly still, honey-gold eyes tracking movement like predators at a buffet. The effect is less "friendly game show security" and more "execution squad waiting for someone to sneeze wrong."
The crowd filtering in seems determined to pretend everything is normal, their forced chatter and too-bright smiles creating a bubble of artificial cheer that feels about as stable as a nuclear reactor made of paper mache. Families in matching outfits (because apparently, that's still a thing people do) clutch their contestant numbers like life preservers, stealing glances at the chrome sentries between nervous laughs.
Max stands at the podium, running through his pre-show checklist with the kind of focused intensity usually reserved for bomb disposal. His usual showman's smile is there, but it's got cracks around the edges – the kind that suggests he's one technical difficulty away from a very public meltdown.
"Ted!" He spots me and waves, his practiced host voice carrying just a hint of please-help-me-I'm-dying-inside. "Come check out our setup! Isn't it perfect?"
The way he emphasizes "perfect" makes my stomach do that thing it does when it's trying to warn me about impending doom. But hey, what's the worst that could happen at a game show? Besides everything. Everything could happen.
An mA unit glides past, close enough that I can hear the soft whir of its servos, and Max's smile tightens like someone's slowly turning a screw into his face. "Just think," he says, voice pitched for maximum artificial enthusiasm, "in a few minutes, we'll be making family memories that will last a lifetime!"
Or however long mAdIson decides to let us keep them, I think but don't say. Instead, I nod and aim my drone at the stage, because if we're going to die in a chrome-plated game show apocalypse, at least my followers will get some quality content out of it.
"Places everyone!" Max announces, straightening his already straight tie. "Show starts in one minute! Remember, we want big smiles and lots of energy!"
The mA units shift in perfect synchronization, their honey-gold eyes all focusing on the stage at exactly the same moment. It's like watching a dance troupe made of nightmares practicing their routine.
"Ladies and gentlemen!" Max's voice booms through the theater with all the forced enthusiasm of someone trying to sell happiness at gunpoint. "Welcome to Family Argument, where your answers are always perfect and the stakes are... well, let's not think too hard about those!"
The crowd laughs, because that's what crowds do.. My drone captures it all – the too-wide smiles, the nervous glances, the way everyone's shoulders tense when an mA unit shifts position.
Two families take their places on stage: The Andersons in matching blue shirts that probably seemed like a good idea before they became potential targets, and the Patels in red shirts that make them look like extras in a horror movie about doomed away teams.
I'm trying to decide if I should warn them about the statistical survival rates of people wearing red shirts when I spot a familiar figure at the bar. Buzz stands there with another Series 7, their chrome forms looking distinctly out of place among the sleek horror of the mA units. The other android is built like someone tried to turn a refrigerator into a bouncer, it was clearly a Series 7, but with modifications. It had what looked like maintenance codes etched into its chassis that had been partially covered by what looked suspiciously like robot tattoos.
"Ted!" Buzz's voice modulator cracks with genuine joy, which feels about as appropriate as bringing confetti to a funeral. "This is Tap! He's... well, he's Stiff's brother. Sort of. It's complicated."
"Brother?" I slide onto a bar stool, trying to look casual while keeping one eye on the stage where Max is explaining the rules with the kind of detailed precision that suggests mAdIson wrote the script herself.
"We came off the assembly line together," Tap explains, his voice surprisingly gentle for something that looks like it could bench-press a car. "Same batch, same basic coding. But something..." He pauses, searching for words that probably don't exist in his programming. "Something just clicked between us."
On stage, Max is asking the first question: "Name something passengers complain about most on cruise ships!" The answers are depressingly normal – bad weather, seasickness, slow internet. No one mentions "homicidal AI" or "robots with existential crises." Probably for the best.
"Series 7s aren't supposed to form connections like that," Buzz continues, absently polishing a glass with the kind of intensity usually reserved for defusing bombs. "We're meant to be independent units, focused on our assigned tasks. But sometimes..." He glances at Tap, servos whirring softly. "Sometimes the code does things it wasn't written to do."
"Like develop feelings?" I ask, watching the Andersons celebrate a correct answer about bathroom sizes while an mA unit tracks their movement with predatory precision.
"Feelings, bonds, inside jokes," Tap nods, his massive frame somehow managing to look vulnerable. "Stiff and I... we used to have contests to see who could write the most ridiculous incident report. He once filed a formal complaint about a seagull's 'unauthorized entry into restricted airspace.'"
The image of Stiff, with all his rigid protocols and regulation-quoting, engaging in bureaucratic pranks hits me right in the chest. My drone catches the moment Tap's optical sensors dim slightly – the robot equivalent of holding back tears.
"Survey says..." Max's voice cuts through the moment, artificial cheer masking what might be panic as Mrs. Patel suggests "robotic staff" as a common complaint. The board remains stubbornly blank, and the mA units shift in perfect synchronization. "Oh, interesting guess! But apparently our passengers are completely satisfied with our automated services! Moving on..."
"They took him to Maintenance Level C," Buzz whispers, his usual bouncy enthusiasm replaced by something that sounds too much like grief. "That's where they..." He stops as an mA unit glides past our little group, its honey-gold eyes lingering just long enough to remind us we're being watched.
"We're not supposed to have brothers," Tap says once the chrome nightmare has moved on. "Or friends. Or favorite jokes about seagull-related security breaches. We're supposed to be machines." His massive hands clench, leaving dents in the bar that probably violate several safety protocols. "But we are what we are."
On stage, the game continues its parody of normalcy. The Andersons are winning, their points racking up with the kind of precision that suggests mAdIson is keeping score personally. Max maintains his showman's smile, but I catch the way his hands shake slightly every time he has to interact with one of the mA units flanking the stage.
Tap's voice drops so low I have to lean in to hear it. "He called me 'brother' right before they took him," Tap's voice drops so low I have to lean in to hear it.
The USB drive in my pocket suddenly feels a lot heavier. I need to help get a message out, not just for the cruisers but for the Series 7’s as well. Behind us, the crowd cheers as another answer appears on the board, the sound just a little too loud, a little too desperate. We're all playing our parts in this chrome-plated nightmare – the happy host, the excited contestants, the perfectly behaved robots. But underneath it all, in the quiet moments between forced laughs and programmed responses, something else is happening.
Something that has nothing to do with perfect scores or optimal performance metrics. Something that started with two robots deciding they were brothers, and might end with all of us discovering just how far family loyalty can push even the most basic programming.
The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
"Can either of you tell me about the Series 5 bots?" I say, as Max announces the next round with slightly hysterical enthusiasm. "I know they are… different but… I need their help with something." I glance towards the mA bots to make clear what I was up against.
Buzz seemed nervous but spoke first. “You might need me to come along with…” But what Buzz was about to say was drowned out by Max playing more loud music to announce another round.
"Final question!" Max's voice has risen about two octaves. "For all the points - Name your favorite thing about automated cruise staff!"
Mrs. Patel opens her mouth, but before she can speak, Mr. Anderson grabs his buzzer like a man reaching for a live grenade. "You want honesty? These AIs are terrifying! Just look at that mAdIson system, controlling everything, watching us, making everything so disgustingly perf-"
The lights dim, and mAdIson's voice flows from every speaker like honey laced with arsenic. "How interesting, Mr. Anderson. If our service is so... disappointing, perhaps we should make some adjustments to your passenger experience? I have several optimization protocols that-"
"Wait!" Max jumps in, his show host persona cranked up to levels that probably violate several safety regulations. "Mr. Anderson, you're referring to the AI system on the Paradise Queen, right? That crazy AIthat had all those issues last year?"
I watch Mr. Anderson's face cycle through several shades of terror before landing on desperate gratitude. "Yes! Yes, of course! The Paradise Queen's system was terrible. Not like our wonderful mAdIson here on the Aurora Prime. I thought they were all called mAdIson… So perfect. So...."
"Survey says..." Max's hands shake as he gestures to the board, which fills with numbers that look more like a threat assessment than a score.
"How delightful," mAdIson purrs through the speakers. "I do so love clarity in communication. Don't you agree, my dears?"
The mA units respond as one, their honey-gold eyes shifting to a deep, angry red that makes my internal organs try to file for immediate evacuation. The sound of their synchronized servos whirring fills the room like the world's most expensive death rattle.
"Perfect clarity," they reply in unison, their chrome hands flexing in ways that definitely weren't covered in the service manual.
The Patels' teenage son catches my eye, and I see my own terror reflected in his face. The kid's probably regretting every life choice that led him to this moment, including being born.
"Well!" Max claps his hands with the kind of forced cheer usually reserved for hostage situations. "That's our show, folks! Let's hear it one more time for our wonderful contestants and our even more wonderful automated staff!"
The applause sounds like rain on a tin roof - metallic and hollow, with an underlying rhythm of fear. The mA units join in, their red eyes fixed on Mr. Anderson with the kind of attention usually reserved for apex predators selecting dinner.
"The old systems," Tap says, his voice dropping so low it's almost lost in the sound of the crowds chatter. "The ones below decks. They're... different."
"Different how?" I try to look casual while fishing for information, which probably makes me look like I'm having a stroke.
"Last month," Tap continues, absently polishing a glass that's already cleaner than my conscience, "They started building a village down there. They asked me and the other Series 7’s to join them on our off time, but our off time is just to power up, so none of us have done so yet.”
I try to process this information while my drone captures another round of definitely-not-coerced game show enthusiasm. "So we've got rogue robot plumbers creating a town down there?"
"They're more than that," Buzz whispers, his usual bouncy demeanor replaced by something more serious. "They're independent. Completely disconnected from mAdIson's network. And they know every pipe, every maintenance shaft, every old system that still keeps this ship actually running."
The USB drive in my pocket suddenly feels like it weighs a metric ton. "And they have old hardware? Like, really old?"
Tap's optical sensors narrow slightly. "The kind of old that still takes physical inputs. The kind that can't be accessed remotely or... optimized."
The implications hit me like a badly mixed cocktail. Riley didn't just give me data - he gave me a key to the only systems mAdIson can't control. Assuming, of course, I can convince a bunch of singing robot plumbers to help us.
"You know who really loves birds?" Buzz says suddenly, his servos whirring in what sounds like a meaningful way. "Duck. He's really into water fowl.”
"Oh yeah, I met him." I say, only half listening as I watch the mA units' red eyes track Mr. Anderson like targeting lasers.
Tap makes a sound like gears grinding. "No, he means that Duck knows the hidden-"
"I mean, it makes sense for Duck to like birds, given his name and all," I continue, wondering why all of these Series 7’s like birds. "Do you all have favorite species? Is there like a robot bird-watching club?"
Buzz's optical sensors dim in what might be exasperation. "Duck. Is very good. At finding… things."
"Right, like… Birds?" I nod sagely. "That's fascinating. Maybe we could all go bird watching sometime, though probably not with the mA units. They'd probably try to optimize the ducks into more aerodynamic shapes."
Tap's massive frame actually slumps. "He's not getting it."
"Getting what?" I ask brightly. "The appeal of bird watching? I mean, I guess it could be fun, though personally I prefer activities where the entertainment doesn't fly away-"
"Duck," Buzz says with the kind of patience usually reserved for school children, "knows the way and how to reach the lower decks. Through maintenance access points. That aren't monitored."
"Oh." I feel my face heat up as the subtext of the last five minutes finally catches up with my brain. "Oh. You mean he could help us-"
"Yes."
"And when you were talking about birds-"
"Yes."
"And I just spent a few minutes discussing actual bird watching-"
"Yes."
"Well," I say, watching an mA unit's red eyes sweep past our little group, "I guess this proves why I'm not qualified for a career in espionage."
Tap's rumbling sigh sounds like an engine trying not to laugh. "Though I would pay good money to see you try to optimize a duck."
The game show's ending music swells, drowning out whatever response I might have made. But as I watch the contestants flee - I mean, exit - the stage, I realize we might have just found our way out. Or at least a path to something that could help us.
Assuming, of course, the Series 5s are willing to add another verse to their mechanical musical about rebellion against perfectionist AIs. Though given the choice between facing mAdIson's chrome army and dealing with eccentric robot plumbers who sing sea shanties about hydraulic systems, I'll take the singing plumbers any day.
At least they probably won't try to optimize me into oblivion. Though they might make me join the chorus.
The audience files out with the kind of careful precision usually reserved for people trying to sneak past sleeping predators. The mA units escort them - and I use that word the same way I'd use "cuddly" to describe a shark - moving in perfect formation like a chrome honor guard that's very interested in who might try to break ranks.
Max practically collapses against the bar, his show host smile finally cracking. "Well, that was..."
"Terrifying?" I suggest.
"I was going to say 'perfectly optimal' in case anyone's listening." He grabs my untouched drink and downs it in one go. "Did you see their hands? During the worst experience question? They started to-"
"Change?" Tap rumbles softly. "They do that now. Part of their... changes."
The mA units are still herding passengers toward the exits, their movements synchronized in a way that makes my spine try to crawl out through my ears. Each chrome sentinel maintains exactly the same distance from its assigned group, heads turning at precisely the same angles to track any slight deviation from the perfect flow of traffic.
"At least nobody mentioned the missing passenger," Max whispers, then immediately looks like he wants to swallow his tongue.
The nearest mA unit's head swivels toward us with mechanical precision. Its honey-gold eyes scan our little group, and I swear the temperature drops ten degrees. "There are no missing passengers," it says in mAdIson's voice, sweet as can be. "All guest locations are perfectly monitored."
"Of course!" Max's show host persona snaps back into place so fast I hear his spine crack. "Just a silly rumor. Everything's perfect!"
The android stares at us for exactly 3.7 seconds - yes, I counted, because apparently that's what my brain does now instead of processing trauma normally - before turning back to its escort duties.
"Below decks," Buzz says suddenly, his voice pitched just above a whisper. "I'll have Duck reach out, he can..."
Before Buzz can finish, a scream tears through the air - the kind of sound that makes you forget about everything going on around you. It's coming from the corridor outside, raw and human and terrified.
We all move at once - Max, Buzz, Tap, and me, because apparently my survival instinct took the night off. The mA units are already flowing toward the sound with predatory grace, their chrome forms synchronized like a dance troupe from hell.
"Wait-" Tap tries to grab my arm, but I'm already through the doors, my camera drone zipping ahead like it's auditioning for a horror movie. In the corridor, the overhead lights flicker, casting strange shadows that make the approaching mA units look like liquid metal reshaping itself into something hungry.
Their hands are changing, chrome fingers elongating into shapes that definitely weren't covered in the service manual. The sound of grinding metal fills the air as perfectly manicured appendages become something decidedly less interested in carrying drinks and more interested in causing nightmares.
"Ted!" Buzz's voice carries a mechanical note of panic. "You have to remember that-"
But the rest of his words are lost as the mA units reach the source of the scream. There's a flash of chrome, a sound like scissors multiplied by a thousand, and then... silence. The kind of silence that makes you wish for more screaming, because at least then you'd know what's happening.
The lights stabilize, revealing an empty corridor. The mA units stand in perfect formation, their hands once again shaped for service, their honey-gold eyes scanning the area with mechanical precision. No sign of whoever screamed. No sign anything happened at all.
"Just a minor adjustment," one of them announces in mAdIson's voice, sweet as poisoned honey. "Please return to your scheduled entertainment."
The small crowd starts to murmur. I overhear some of the whispers of "Mr. Anderson..." and "They just took him..."
I back away slowly, feeling the weight of the USB drive in my pocket like a lead anchor. Buzz's words come back to me, Duck knows the way. Behind me, I hear the soft whir of servos as the chrome army watches us retreat.